


right now could last forever (just as long as i'm with you)

by bellawritess



Category: All Time Low (Band)
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - No Band, Asexual Jack Barakat, Based on an All Time Low Song, Denial, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Humor, Light Angst, M/M, Pining, Sharing a Bed, THREE GUESSES WHICH ONE, far too many sports references, featuring rian and zack as The Homies, it's a daydream fic. i wrote a daydream fic. FINALLY, like VERY light but still there ya know, listen all time low are from my state and i will NOT let you forget it, pranks :) laughs :) HA :)), yes i know that's a bold choice but it's the one i made
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-11
Updated: 2020-12-11
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:33:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28007769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bellawritess/pseuds/bellawritess
Summary: Alex gives him a tired smile. “You can take one of my shirts. Please, Jack.”And Jack is powerless, because of course he is. Since the dawn of time he’s been powerless against the force of nature that is Alex Gaskarth, not because Alex is so willful but because Jack is so weak. It only takes this moment, this smile, for Jack to cave.“Okay,” he says.
Relationships: Jack Barakat/Alex Gaskarth
Comments: 20
Kudos: 23





	right now could last forever (just as long as i'm with you)

**Author's Note:**

> AHHHHHHHHHHHHH I FINALLY FUCKING WROTE A DAYDREAM FIC. i feel like my entire life has been building up to this moment. i'd like to thank the academy
> 
> anyway i am stoked as hell about this fic bc let me tell you. i have always wanted to write a daydream fic (and ive written that whole kitchen floor/grinning like a fool/tuesday afternoon shtick into a few fics before, not-so-subtly) but a few days ago i was listening to it and it just like. hit me. how there's this entire second verse telling a WHOLE NEW PART OF THE STORY that i never? pay attention to? that i never give any credit to??? and i guess that was what tipped the scales for me and now it's 4am five days later and here we are. crazy how these things happen
> 
> jokes aside i would like to thank (surprise surprise) [sam](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yellingatbabylon) as well as [meghna](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sunsetmagnolia) for letting me yell about this fic despite not telling them anything about the plot. you guys are the realest MVPs ever and when i die i bequeath my goldfish to you. the snacks, not the animal, i'm not the guardian of any living goldfish, that'd be super fucked up. love you both so much
> 
> tw for alcohol/drinking (in a responsible and adult way) (for the most part)
> 
> this is going to come as a shock to everyone, but the title is from a daydream away. by all time low. okay go forth and prosper i love you (YES YOU) byeeeee

**TUESDAY**

“You look so stupid, you have cheese _all over_ you.”

“Because you threw it at me, you bitch! That’s not my fault!”

Jack laughs. “This was your stupid idea!”

“You swore you wouldn’t throw a fucking handful!”

“And you _believed_ me!” Jack shakes his head at Alex, who really _does_ look ridiculous, shredded mozzarella cheese in his hair and the creases of his clothes, surrounding him like a bad imitation of snow. “That’s on _you_ , Alex. How long have you known me? You should never trust me with cheese.”

“Well, that’s definitely going to be my motto from now on,” Alex mutters, but he still has a smile on his face that absolutely isn’t going anywhere anytime soon. Jack reaches into the bag of mozzarella because Alex has forgotten the cardinal rule of battling with Jack — _disarm him as soon as possible_ — and launches another handful at Alex. Alex screams inelegantly as it explodes around him like fairy dust; some goes in his mouth, which is wide open from a combination of cursing Jack out and laughing too hard to actually mean it. Jack is also laughing, but he’s sure to do it with his eyes open. Partially because he does _not_ trust the bag of cheddar in Alex’s hand, but also, mostly, because Alex is a sight for sore eyes.

He always is, but especially in moments like this.

“You look like a crazy person,” Jack says. Alex laughs again, and when the laugh dies down what remains is a foolish grin which stretches the corners of his mouth as far as they’ll go, a grin that changes not just Alex’s mouth but his entire face. The light behind his eyes is a result of it; the easy, relaxed set of his shoulders is, too.

“You are so going to regret this,” Alex warns. Still smiling and totally incapable of stopping, he points an accusing finger at Jack. “I’m going to get back at you, I hope you know.” 

Jack absolutely believes that Alex is going to retaliate, but nothing could ever possibly make him _regret_ using shredded cheese as projectiles against Alex in their stupid dinner-turned-food-fight. It’s gotten Alex to laugh harder than he has in a long time, and honestly, Jack as well, and that’s worth any number of revenge plots Alex might pull.

Plus, Alex is a basic bitch, so he’ll probably just, like, put cheese in Jack’s shoes and call it a day. It’s a good thing Jack’s not the one getting revenge, because Jack is ruthless.

“I’m hungry,” Jack says instead. “Truce?”

“The pizza bagels aren’t done.”

“So you’re saying we can’t have a truce until they are? Fine.”

Jack reaches again into his bag of cheese, and Alex yells, “NO! Yes, we can have a truce! Jesus fucking Christ. Stop it. No more cheese-on-Alex violence. NO MORE.”

“ _Thank_ you,” Jack says, setting aside the bag on the floor and leaning forward to shake Alex’s hand with his own. “Truce.”

“Truce,” Alex repeats. “If you throw cheese at me again, I swear to God.”

“I honor the truce!”

“I thought you’d honor not throwing a handful of cheese in my face,” Alex says wryly. 

“That wasn’t a truce,” Jack protests. They’re still shaking hands, and it’s going on too long now, comically long, but the more they do it the more Alex’s grin grows, so Jack won’t be the one to let go.

Anything to see that smile on Alex’s face another minute. Anything at all.

“Oh my God, let go of my hand, you weirdo,” Alex finally says, dropping Jack’s hand from his with a final shake. Jack flexes his fingers and flicks Alex’s shin where it’s stretched out next to Jack. Alex looks suspiciously at him.

“So _anyway_ ,” Jack says, picking up a conversation where they’d left it off roughly eight minutes ago when they’d devolved into this food fight, “Rian and I are going to see Zack’s photography exhibit…thing. If you want to come.”

“When is it?”

“Saturday night,” Jack says.

“What’s today again?”

Jack raises his eyebrows. “Tuesday.”

“I knew that,” Alex says. “I was testing you.” He so definitely wasn’t, but it doesn’t matter. Anyway, Jack likes that between the two of them, somehow he’s the one who always knows the date. Looking at them both, an outsider would probably assume that Alex has his life together more — which he _kind_ of has — but at least Jack remembers what month they’re in. 

If his memory is all he has going for him, then so be it.

“So do you want to come or not?” Jack prods at Alex’s calf. Every time he looks at Alex he feels the urge to start laughing all over again. Alex has made zero effort to get the cheese out of his clothes and hair. He looks so stupid.

(He looks so pretty and Jack loves him so so so so much and it should really be impossible to be as beautiful as Alex with mozzarella cheese in place of dandruff but Alex pulls it off or maybe Jack is so, so gone.)

“Sure, yeah,” says Alex. He swats half-heartedly at Jack’s hand, but instead of batting it away he just kind of takes it, holding Jack’s index finger in the curl of his palm. Jack twists their fingers around so at least they can hold hands like normal people, and Alex doesn’t even watch. “Where is it?”

“Takoma Park,” Jack says, and Alex whistles lowly. “I can pick you up.”

Alex grins. “Awesome. Thanks.”

“You only like me for my car,” Jack sighs.

Alex squeezes his hand. “Nah. Car’s just one of the reasons.” And with that he pulls his knees towards his chest, flattens the soles of his feet over Jack’s, and reaches for Jack’s other hand to pull them both up. He could have stood up on his own, but Jack likes this way better, because here he is, inches between his face and Alex’s. He can barely see Alex’s eyes because his own head is blocking the light, but Jack only really gets this close on rare occasion, and he would never sacrifice the chance.

“I also like that you bring wine to date night,” Alex adds quietly. “Really fancies it up.” 

Jack laughs gently. Not even chardonnay can make pizza bagels and sliced peppers fancy, but that’s part of the fun of “date night.” 

(Not a real date night, obviously. A real date night would mean a real date, and that’s not what they are; it’s more appropriate for them to call it _date night_ when it’s not, because their entire relationship is founded on the fine, smudgy, chalk-drawn line between _friends_ and _more_ , and sure, they could just call it _cheap food and watching our favorite sports teams lose on TV_ , but then where would be the drama? The risk? The almost-but-not-quite, the are-we-aren’t-we that makes Jack come back every week like they’re a goddamn soap opera and Jack’s the target audience?)

“You’re just a gold-digger,” Jack says accusingly. “Our entire friendship is based on me buying you things, you piece of shit.”

“I like your personality too!”

“Nope, too late.” Except Jack hasn’t moved away. And also, they’re still holding hands. Alex seems to be pretending not to notice, so Jack is also pretending, but he has _definitely noticed_. 

“And your hair,” Alex says, eyes flickering up to Jack’s hair before returning to his face. “And eyes. And that you watch the Ravens games with me.”

“Keep going,” Jack says (greedy and selfish and wanting to hear Alex compliment him again and again forever).

“No,” Alex says stubbornly. “Forgive me, bitch.”

Jack wrinkles his nose up. “Fine. Forgiven. But you have to let me have the remote tonight.”

“But you watch the commercials!”

“We don’t need to be watching two things at once, Alex!”

“I just don’t see the point in watching the commercials —”

The timer on the oven interrupts an argument they’ve had a hundred thousand times (at a conservative estimate), and Jack finally takes a step back, reluctantly freeing his hands from Alex’s grip so he can turn to check on the pizza bagels. He misses the warmth. Alex is always warm. There’s not nearly enough skin on his bones to explain how he retains heat so well, but Jack’s not complaining, since _he_ is always cold, and they work well like that.

They work well in a lot of ways. 

(But in so many more ways they wouldn’t — Jack already knows, he’s run the simulations in his head, and they crash and burn every time. They wouldn’t stand a chance.)

As Alex closes the oven, declaring that they need another minute or two, some of the cheese in his hair falls to the floor. “Oh my God, stand still,” Jack says, grabbing Alex by the shoulders. “You are _covered_ in cheese, it’s gross, I don’t know how you expect anyone to love a cheese boy. Honestly.”

Jack pulls his fingers through Alex’s hair, combing out the shredded mozzarella (this _has_ to be in the top ten weirdest things Alex has ever had in his hair) and letting it fall to the floor. Cheesy situation aside, it’s kind of nice; this is just another way Jack will never have Alex again, so he takes advantage of the one opportunity to feel Alex’s hair between his fingers, gently detangling where it’s gotten messed up. 

“Well, _you_ love me,” Alex says easily. Jack swallows and resolutely says nothing. “You already do, and you’ve seen me at my cheesiest.”

“What are you trying to say here?” Jack demands, feeling like it’s probably safer to entertain this conversation while not touching Alex, even if Alex is joking (which, from his tone, he obviously is). He brushes Alex’s clothes off and steps back. “You think I’m going to settle for a cheese boy?”

“A cheesy boy?” Alex echoes, smile playing at his lips. “No, no. Nothing. I’m not saying anything.” Jack really believes that, and he’s prepared to drop it when Alex continues smoothly, “What about now that I’m not covered in cheese anymore?” 

“What _about_ that?”

“Would you settle now?” Alex spreads his arms wide, giving Jack a look that’s half-teasing, half-expectant. Like he wants an honest answer, even if he’s not going to do anything about it.

Jack stares at him. “You have cheese all over your floor and you smell like mozzarella,” he says finally. “No, I wouldn’t settle. You’re disgusting.”

Alex snorts. “Okay, well fuck you. All of that is your fault.”

And Jack finds his footing. “I’m pretty sure it’s your fault,” Jack says, picking his way over the scattered cheese to retrieve the broom from next to the fridge. “We’ve been over this, Alex. You need to develop some trust issues.”

“I will now.”

No he won’t. Jack knows, with eerie confidence, that Alex will trust Jack no matter how many times Jack tells him not to, will always do what Jack says he wants even if Alex doesn’t. Reason number nine hundred and five why Jack and Alex would never work out.

(Alex will trip over himself to make Jack happy, even when it means to martyr himself, and Jack is too selfish to stop him. They’re stuck like that, perfectly matched in every way that doesn’t matter and incompatible in every way that does.)

“Sweep,” Jack commands, holding out the broom for Alex to take. As predicted, Alex makes a loud noise of protest.

“No fucking way. Your mess. _You_ sweep. _I_ will take care of the pizza bagels.”

Jack glares at him, but it _is_ technically his mess, so he starts sweeping, though not without an exasperated huff to let Alex know precisely how he feels about it. The timer goes off again. Alex pulls the oven open as Jack sweeps the cheese across the floor into one pile. He’s just finished and is returning the broom to its place when he hears Alex from the living room call, “I’m gonna eat your pizza bagels!”

“I will actually kill you,” Jack replies, prancing into the living room and throwing himself down on the couch beside Alex. Alex has opened the wine and poured them both a glass, so Jack lifts his and Alex follows suit. “To another successful date night,” he says wryly. “And my cheese fight victory.”

“Sleep with one eye open,” Alex says ominously, but he smiles and clinks his glass with Jack’s. “Hell yeah. We’re so good at date night.”

Jack can’t help his own smile, and he’s not sure what makes him say it other than wanting to keep Alex’s face looking that happy, but before he knows it he’s opening his mouth to talk. “It wouldn’t be settling for you, you know. I would be lucky.” He clears his throat. “Anyone would be lucky, I mean.”

Alex tilts his head at Jack as Jack takes a sip from his wine glass. “What?”

Jack swallows. “Like what you were saying earlier about settling? For a cheesy boy like you?” Alex laughs, thank God. “Yeah. I’m just saying it’s not settling. You’re — nobody would settle for you. I know I wouldn’t. You’re way out of my league anyway.”

The line is just chalk. Jack can redraw it. Jack is always redrawing it. He draws a new line and takes one step forward, closer to danger and farther from safety with every sentence. 

This time Alex doesn’t laugh. He has that same almost-maybe look that could really go either way.

 _Bad idea,_ Jack thinks, _bad bad idea, you shouldn’t have said anything, you fucking moron._ Because either Alex shuts him down, which would suck, or Alex takes the chalk and draws another line and then Jack starts to think that it’s not a bad idea, when it is. For so many reasons, it is.

“I don’t think so,” Alex says, as if it’s something he’s taking into careful consideration. He eyes Jack. “I’d be lucky if you settled for me, JB.” He pats Jack’s knee twice, and as his hand hovers Jack watches him make the decision to set it back down on Jack’s leg. The warmth from his palm seeps through Jack’s jeans. “And anyway,” Alex adds drolly, “it’s not like I have better options.”

“You’re settling for me whether you like it or not,” Jack threatens, because if he can’t make a joke then who is he really, and then, blessedly, the TV announces the start of the game. He holds out a hand. “Remote?” 

“Absolutely not,” Alex declares, hugging the remote control to his chest. “We are _not_ watching the commercials. I’m sorry, there’s no way.”

“But when you switch away during commercials you never switch back in time! We miss the game!”

“ _Barely,_ we miss like one minute.”

“It’s football. A lot can happen in one minute.”

“Would you stop complaining? I’m being a kind and generous host and this is how you repay me? Shut up and eat your pizza bagel.”

“ _Shut Up and Eat Your Pizza Bagel,_ a symphony by Alex William Gaskarth,” Jack muses, grinning to himself. “Coming soon to a symphony orchestra near you.”

Alex laughs, Jack obligingly eats his (very tasty) pizza bagel, and the Ravens kick the Steelers’ asses, so all things considered, it _is_ a successful date night.

**SATURDAY**

Zack’s photography exhibit is predictably awesome.

Jack has seen some of the pictures as a natural consequence of living with him, but Zack is also really tight-lipped when he wants to be, so most of them are completely new, and each one is stunning. Jack has never had the eye for this kind of thing. Obviously, Zack does not have the same problem.

“The flowers,” Alex proclaims later at the restaurant-slash-sports-bar, when Zack asks everyone for their favorites. Alex is a little drunk and working his way towards Very Drunk, so they’re all patient as he collects his thoughts. “The red one with all the yellow ones around it? Fuck.”

“Oh, _fuck_ , that one was so good,” Jack agrees enthusiastically, remembering it. “Shit, fuck, they were all good, can I say all of them?”

“All of them,” Rian immediately declares, “if that’s an option.”

“You can’t say all of them, that’s a total cop-out,” Zack says, smiling and blushing and resolutely pretending like he’s not doing either of those things.

“Okay, fine. Fine.” Jack leans back in his seat, his shoulder brushing Alex’s, and thinks. “My favorite was the people dancing.”

“ _Also_ a good one,” Alex confirms, clapping his hand on Jack’s thigh before bringing it back to his drink. “Yo, Zack. You’re — you’ve got a gift, man.”

“I also liked the dancers,” Rian says, “but since this asshole just _said_ that” — Jack snickers — “I’ll say the one of the train tracks at midnight.”

“ _ALSO_ a good one!” This seems to be Alex’s new catchphrase.

Rian elbows Zack. “Did you take those all in Baltimore or what?”

Zack shrugs, shakes his head, drains his drink. Jack and Rian are designated drivers, which is totally unfair in Jack’s opinion, even if the car is his. Half-his. But he’s a man of his word, and he and Alex have to get home somehow if Rian is taking Zack, which he will.

(It would make more sense, way more, for Jack and Zack to just go back to their place together, but one of them is going to end up taking Alex home and getting his drunk ass to bed safely, and they all know it’s going to be Jack.)

“Came to Takoma for a few,” Zack says, gesturing around them. “Also…oh, I took a few in New York when I went to visit my grandma.”

“Nice,” Rian says. He smiles brightly. “Well it paid off, buddy. Good for you.”

Zack blushes. “Alright. That’s enough compliments. Alex, come on, I’ll buy you a drink.”

“ _Fuck_ yeah,” Alex says, but first he turns to Jack and, apropos of nothing, says, “You know you smell really good?”

Jack squints. “What? The fuck?”

“You just smell really good,” Alex says plainly. In a more joking tone, “ _Intoxicatingly_ good,” and then he laughs and follows Zack to the bar.

Jack, bewildered, turns to Rian, but Rian is just chuckling. “What?” Jack demands. “The hell was that?”

“The hell was what? He complimented you.” Jack eyes Rian suspiciously. “In some parts of the world, we call that _flirting._ ”

Jack’s heart skips a beat. “Very funny.”

“I’m not being funny,” Rian says, even though the glint in his eye and the smirk across his face say otherwise. Something in Jack’s face must make it obvious he doesn’t believe Rian, because the smirk all but disappears and his eyes soften. “No, seriously, I’m not.”

“Alex isn’t flirting with me,” Jack says. Just saying it sounds ludicrous. “Get real, Ri.”

“Uh, _me_ get real? He just told you you smell good. _Smell_ good, Jack. When’s the last time you complimented the way someone smells?” Rian doesn’t wait for Jack to answer — which is for the best, because Jack can’t come up with one. “Yeah. Flirting.”

“That’s a terrible way to flirt with your best friend of almost ten years,” Jack argues. “If he _was_ flirting, _which he was not,_ he’d have to be a lot more obvious about it. And!” Triumphantly, “I told Alex he smelled good, like, three weeks ago.”

Rian raises an eyebrow. “So your argument is that it’s not flirting because _you_ did it to _him?_ A guy you’re into?”

Jack widens his eyes warningly at Rian. “Dude.”

“He can’t fucking hear me, he’s at the bar,” Rian says, leaning across the table. “I’m just saying, do you hear yourself?”

Jack rolls his eyes. “I’m not listening to this. Stop it. Tonight is _fun_. You’re not gonna get in my head about Alex right now.”

“He does all the work!” Rian says, holding up his hands in a don’t-shoot gesture. “I’m just the messenger! Think of me as a magnifying glass. I take the evidence and just blow it up real big so even a blind shithead as deep in denial as you are can see it.”

“I’m not kidding, Rian, drop it.”

Rian sighs. “One of these days you’re going to listen to me.” But he leaves it at that, proving that even Rian is capable of mercy.

Jack gives him a cheeky smile and pinches his cheek. “Nope, never. Not a single day of my life if I can help it.”

“Alcohol!” Alex announces proudly as he and Zack return to the table.

“And coke for you guys,” Zack adds, sliding carefully into his seat next to Rian. Alex sets his glass down on the tabletop and squishes himself into the booth, pressing up against Jack. Jack deliberately does not look at Rian.

“Awesome,” Rian says. “Hey. Toast to Zack, right?”

“Yo, fucking toast to Zack!” Jack echoes energetically. “Most talented photographer on the East Coast! And the best, not to mention sexiest, roommate a boy could possibly ask for.”

“Amen!” Rian lifts his glass.

“L’chaim,” Alex says brightly.

“Cheers,” Jack says, as they all clink their glasses together.

“Thanks, guys,” Zack says, smiling self-consciously. “Now please, let’s talk about anything else.”

“You can’t escape our love,” Jack informs him. “We’re going to love the fuck out of you, you know. You’re trapped in a room and it’s just us four and all of our undying love for you.”

“And support,” Alex chimes in. “For your work.”

“And emotional and physical well-being,” Rian contributes.

Zack rolls his eyes and grins. “Okay, all of you shut the fuck up or I will leave.”

They all laugh. Rian changes the subject, asking after any new music Alex might be learning, and then their nachos arrive and everyone falls silent in deference to the nachos, and the night moves on.

It’s around when Alex starts cracking jokes at the expense of the loud, drunk guys and their clearly-miserable girlfriends or wives sitting at the surrounding tables at a volume just slightly over acceptable that Jack thinks maybe it’s time to wrap up.

“That lady was not expecting to come here today,” Alex tells Jack, slightly too loud, pointing at a woman at a table across the room with her face in her phone. She’s dressed a little too nicely for a sports bar, plus Alex has this weird intuition about people, and Jack figures if they asked her, she would confirm Alex’s theory, but still.

“It’s rude to point, you idiot,” Jack says, batting Alex’s hand down. He cranes his neck to find Rian or Zack and locates them still sitting at the bar, engrossed in the Ravens game playing on the TV. That can’t be satisfying; the Ravens are losing by a humiliating margin.

“Okay, but seriously,” Alex says. “What kind of douchebag do you have to be to bring your girlfriend to a sports bar and not even _tell_ her that’s where you’re going? These women need rescuing.”

“And you’re gonna rescue them?” Jack says dryly.

Alex gives Jack a _look._ “Obviously not,” he says. “I’m just saying they need it. Not from me. I’m taken.”

“What?” Jack does a double-take. “You’re taken?”

“Figuratively,” Alex says, like he hasn’t just induced momentary cardiac arrest in Jack. “My heart is metaphorically taken.” Before Jack can say _what the fuck does that even mean, your heart is metaphorically taken,_ Alex moves on. “ _Plus_ I wouldn’t want to go out with someone who wouldn’t enjoy a date at a sports bar, so sadly none of these tragic women are my soulmate.”

“True,” Jack says. “That’s the number one requirement. Gotta enjoy the shitty sports bar vibe.”

“You _gotta enjoy_ the shitty _sports bar vibe!_ ” Alex repeats. He grins lopsidedly at Jack. “Hey, you get it, man. You’d be such a good date. You’d come with me to any shitty sports bar and watch any shitty sports game.”

Jack swallows, squints. “Uh, no I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t watch the Yankees if you paid me.”

“You would if they were playing the Orioles.”

“Okay _duh_ , I’d watch for the Orioles, but —”

“And the Yankees would wipe the floor with us.”

“You’re a fake fucking fan,” Jack accuses. They’ve moved past Alex saying Jack would be a good date, but mentally Jack is still there. Mentally Jack will be hearing _you’d be such a good date_ for the next ten years on repeat, like listening to a broken record while wearing a straitjacket. “You’re supposed to support them win or lose.”

“It’s always lose with the O’s,” Alex says shrewdly. He yawns and lays his head on the tabletop.

That’s Jack’s cue. “Be right back,” Jack says, sliding out of the booth and heading towards the bar. Rian has vanished so Zack is sitting alone, and Jack approaches and taps him on the shoulder.

“Hey,” Zack says. “Don’t bother watching the game, we’re getting slammed.”

Jack grimaces in solidarity. “I tried to warn you.”

“You did,” Zack allows.

“Anyway, I was gonna say I should probably take Alex home soon. Otherwise he will definitely start crying in the middle of this bar. Or just fall asleep on the table.”

Zack nods in agreement. “Yeah, sure.”

“Rian can take you home, right?”

“Rian can take who what?” Rian says, appearing out of nowhere. 

“Zack home,” says Zack, inexplicably also in the third person.

Rian pats his cheek. “Sure. You wanna go now, or…?”

Between the clamor and the Ravens’ utter failure to be a competent football team, Jack would venture that Zack has been ready to go for about an hour. “Yeah,” he says. He turns to Jack. “I’ll pay you back when —”

“You’re not paying me back, bro,” Jack says. “I said it’s on me and I have more money than you so you can’t say no. You’re a starving artist.”

“I’m not a starving artist.” Zack is smiling. 

“I’ll get the check,” Jack says obstinately. “Seriously. It’s fine.”

“Let the man pay,” Rian says. “He’s offering you free money.”

“It’s free money,” Jack parrots.

“Okay, Jesus.” Zack pokes Jack’s cheek. “I’ll just have to repay you some other way.”

“You can do my laundry,” Jack says.

“I do your laundry anyway.”

“Well then we’ll call it even.”

Zack snorts. “Hey,” he says, shooting a glance at Alex, whose head is pillowed in his arms at the table. “Don’t do anything stupid, alright?”

“I don’t do stupid things!” Jack protests. Zack raises an eyebrow. Somehow he manages to look really smart and all-knowing even when he’s kind of drunk. “I _don’t_. This is called being a _friend_. A good friend.” 

Eyebrows higher. “Okay,” Zack says, and claps Jack on the shoulder. To Rian, “Let’s go.”

The two of them make their way over to Alex at the table, hugging him goodbye before sending a final wave towards Jack and leaving through the front. Jack returns to Alex.

“Rian and Zack left,” Alex announces, like Jack didn’t just watch them walk out the door.

“I know,” Jack says. He wishes he didn’t have to drive so he could get drunk too, but he will admit it’s kind of fun to be sober while Alex is drunk. Usually they’re drunk together; this way, Jack gets to see exactly how stupid Alex looks.

(Now if only Alex would look stupid. Instead of as good as he always does. Drunk people aren’t supposed to look good. God, why can’t Alex look bad for _one minute_?)

(Why can’t Jack stop being hopelessly in love with him for just one night?)

“Should we leave?” Alex asks, like he’s actually unsure.

“I need to pay,” Jack says, signaling their server for the check as she passes. “Then we can go.”

“Okay,” Alex says. “This was fun. This is such a cool place. Why don’t we go to sports bars more?”

“You’d rather go to a sports bar than do date night?”

Alex ponders this. “Okay, no. Not at all. But still.”

“Anyway, they’re clearly bad luck, since we’re losing by like, a million.”

“True.” Alex nods intelligently. “Fine. You’ve convinced me. We should never go to a sports bar again.”

“We’re not sports bar boys,” Jack says reasonably. “We’re stay-home boys. We’re wine-and-dine boys.”

“Posh boys.”

“Very posh boys. The poshest.” The server approaches with the check and Jack pulls out his credit card.

“Hey, let me,” Alex says, even though Jack had _literally_ said he would cover it as soon as they sat down here an hour ago.

“Nope,” Jack says. Something bold overtakes him, and he says, “A gentleman always pays for his date.”

Alex looks mildly like he’s been hit between the eyes. “So this is a date?”

Fuck. _Fuck._ “No,” Jack says, because it’s very clearly not a date, since Rian and Zack had also been present, and Alex’s face is impossible to read. 

(He doesn’t — he can’t _want_ it to be a date, can he? He wouldn’t. Because he’s Alex and Jack is Jack, and that’s not — they’re not even — that’s not what they are. That’s not. It’s not.)

“Oh,” Alex says. He sounds disappointed. _Disappointed?_ Really? “Why not?”

“What do you mean, why not? Rian and Zack were here like two minutes ago.”

“Well now they’re gone,” Alex points out. “Could be a date.”

“It would be a terrible date. The date would just be me paying and then us leaving.”

“But we could do it in a datey way.”

“Can you elaborate on that?” Jack holds an invisible microphone to Alex’s face. Alex bites his hand. “Alex!”

“I cannot,” Alex says solemnly, “elaborate on that. I don’t know if you noticed this, but I am drunk.”

“Proving my point,” Jack says. “No one wants a date who’s gonna get wasted.”

“ _You_ would,” Alex says, which would be true if Jack were also drinking, but he can’t. As if reading his mind, Alex adds, “You normally would, I mean. If you were drinking, you’d love to get wasted on the first date. Plus if this _was_ a date, it totally wouldn’t be our first, since we do date nights every week. So _ha._ Get destroyed.”

“Consider me destroyed,” Jack says, unsure of what point Alex is making exactly. 

Alex hums. “Sorry you couldn’t drink,” he says sympathetically, apparently moving on from the whole date-or-no-date question.

Jack shakes his head. “Nah, it’s cool. Definitely for the best anyway since I have to get some work done tomorrow.”

“Oh, gross. _Work._ ” Alex pretends to retch. “Work is terrible! Anarchy for the win!”

A few heads turn at Alex’s proclamation, and Jack laughs. “Oh my God, shut your loud mouth.”

“Anarchy,” Alex repeats, then sighs. “I’m tired.”

Of course he is. Alex is always tired when he’s drunk. Tired is better than existential and sad, though, so Jack should really count his blessings. The server brings Jack’s credit card back, and Jack thanks her. As she goes, he says to Alex, “Ready to go?” Alex nods. “Great. Let’s go.”

Somebody walks by just as Jack is standing up, and Jack is too slow to react. He hits the stranger as he gets to his feet and hears “Shit!” as something wet and ice-cold seeps into the front of his shirt.

“Oh, fuck,” the stranger says, stepping away. Jack looks down at his shirt, which is now soaked with — he glances at the half-empty glass in the stranger’s hand — beer. It smells violently like beer. The alcoholic effects of beer are really its only redeeming factors, and the scent by itself is deeply unappealing. “I’m so sorry, bro.”

“No,” Jack says, waving off the stranger. “I’m sorry, man, that was my fault. Ah, this is so fucking _gross_ oh my God. Sorry. You’re all good, dude. Here, let me get you a new drink.”

“Honestly, don’t bother,” says the stranger, wrinkling his face in concern. “Are you sure? I, uh, well, there’s probably nothing I can do, but I’m sorry.”

“It’s just a shirt,” Jack says. “No big deal.” It’s a sorta-fancy shirt, but not Jack’s nicest or anything, and it really doesn’t matter. “Seriously. You sure you don’t want me to get you a new one?”

“He’s good for it,” Alex says. Jack glances over at him. “This is Jack Barakat, the nicest, hottest, and richest man in all the lands. He is actually Bill Gates’s son, so.”

“That’s not —” Jack sighs, smiles. The stranger looks slightly confused. “I’m not.”

“No, I figured,” the stranger says. “I’m okay. Sorry about your shirt, though.”

“I don’t think his _father_ ,” Alex says emphatically, “inventor of _Windows_ AND toaster strudel, will be happy to —”

“Alex,” Jack says, putting his hand over Alex’s mouth. “Shut the fuck up.” The stranger laughs and gives Jack a good-natured nod before walking away. Alex licks Jack’s hand, as Jack expected he would. 

When Jack moves his hand away to wipe his palm on his jeans, Alex grabs his wrist and links their fingers together. Swinging their arms happily, he says, “Well now we _have_ to leave so you can change.”

So they go. Jack pretends like it’s totally normal to hold hands with Alex, because if he pretends it is then maybe it can be, and he’s enjoying it too much to sacrifice. They’ll have to stop when they reach the car, but for now Jack doesn’t pull away and Alex doesn’t either, and the feeling of their fingers intertwined burns itself into Jack’s memory so the touch lingers even when they’ve separated.

Alex’s gaze lingers, too, but Jack chalks that up to tequila-induced behavior and resolutely ignores the way it prickles on the back of his neck.

One forty-five-minute drive later, they’re back at Alex’s place.

Alex is a little less drunk, but he’s definitely still drunk. He’s also very tired (Jack knows this not because he’s such an expert in reading Alex’s body language but because Alex had announced it, _loudly_ , about nine times on the drive back), and it’s making his movements all slow and staggered. They get in the elevator separate, but by the time the doors open on Alex’s floor, Alex is leaning heavily on Jack. His hair tickles Jack’s neck.

Jack digs his key out (Alex had gotten a copy made and promptly realized nobody else really needed access to his apartment, so he’d gifted it to Jack after making him swear not to barge in with any nefarious plots or what-have-yous, something Jack has so far made good on, but it’s only a matter of time) and unlocks the door. “I got it,” Alex says, but he’s patting down his pockets one-handed and Jack doubts him.

“I’m sure you do,” Jack says. Alex gives him an unimpressed look and traipses into the apartment, Jack on his heels.

They don’t get far. Alex yawns and slumps over the kitchen counter. “I’m tired,” he slurs, for the maybe thousandth time. “I would fucking kill for water. Do I have water?”

“Do you have _water?_ ”

“It’s a joke,” Alex says, straightening up unsteadily. Jack puts a grounding hand against the small of Alex’s back, and pretends not to see Alex’s grateful look as he retrieves a glass from the cabinet with his free hand. Alex takes it and turns on the tap to fill up the glass. As soon as it’s full he starts drinking it, turning the faucet off with his other hand. Only when the glass is empty does he turn to Jack. “You can go change.”

Which reminds Jack of his beer-soaked shirt. “I don’t have something to change into,” he says. “It’s fine. Let’s get you in bed and then I’ll go home.”

“No, no, no. Don’t go home.” Alex looks alarmed. “Stay here.”

Jack blinks. “Stay?”

It’s not that he’s never stayed over, but usually Jack is as drunk as Alex and they’ve taken the Metro and neither of them think it’s a particularly good idea to split up while wasted. Jack stays out of necessity sometimes, but very rarely just to stay. He has a roommate. Besides, Alex’s apartment only has one bed — his — so staying over isn’t exactly practical.

And yet.

“Stay,” Alex repeats. “With me.” In the time it’s taken for him to drink a glass of water, he’s either sobered up or is doing a good job pretending; he holds Jack’s gaze, unwavering. Jack wants to turn and run. He probably should. 

“Zack needs the car in the afternoon,” he says hesitantly.

“Leave in the morning.”

“I don’t have anything to change into.”

Alex gives him a tired smile. “You can take one of my shirts. Please, Jack.”

And Jack is powerless, because of course he is. Since the dawn of time he’s been powerless against the force of nature that is Alex Gaskarth, not because Alex is so willful but because Jack is so weak. It only takes this moment, this smile, for Jack to cave.

“Okay,” he says. “But I’m taking the Orioles shirt.”

Alex yawns through the words, “You can keep it.”

“No — I just meant I’m wearing it.”

“You can keep it though,” Alex says. He blinks lethargically at Jack; obviously the tequila hasn’t fully worn off. “Anything of mine you wear will look better on you. I can’t put myself to shame by pretending it doesn’t.”

Jack blushes at that. Alex trudges into his room and Jack follows after. Jack rummages through Alex’s drawer, pulls out the Orioles shirt, and swaps his own damp t-shirt for Alex’s, and when Alex stares at him, a look in his eyes that Jack is pretty sure he’s imagining (because Alex wouldn’t look at him like that, that’s not how they are, that’s not what this is, that’s not — they _aren’t_ , could never be) — Jack blushes at that, too.

“Goodnight,” he says, and starts for the door.

“Jack,” Alex says. Jack turns to face Alex’s hurt, confused expression.

“Yes?”

“I thought you would sleep here.”

He would love to. Honestly, he could crawl into bed with Alex and fall asleep in an instant, he knows he could — it wouldn’t take much to convince him, just another moment of Alex’s eyes on him like that.

It’s not a good idea, but why should Jack be responsible for all the good ideas?

“I was going to take the sofa,” he says weakly.

“Okay,” Alex says, shaking his head dismissively, “but don’t. Sleep here.”

A dangerous question falls off Jack’s tongue: “Why?”

If Alex were smart, or sober, he would say something like _it’ll be warmer_ or _I sleep better with someone else in the bed_ or even just _I don’t want to be alone_.

But Alex is drunk and an idiot.

Jack probably should not have asked.

“Because…” he watches Alex fumble for a good reason, blink twice, and land on, “Because I want you to.”

And, fuck.

There’s not a lot Jack can say to that.

He manages to unstick his tongue from the roof of his mouth. “Um. Okay. Let me get water and stuff for the morning.”

Alex smiles sleepily. “You take good care of me, JB.”

“That’s —” _what friends are for,_ he chokes on. “Yeah. Uh. Back in a sec.”

Alex’s kitchen is as familiar as Jack’s own, so he fills up a glass of water with ease. On the way back to Alex’s room he passes the bathroom, and steps in to retrieve the aspirin he knows Alex will desperately need in the morning.

The Jack in the mirror gives him a dubious look, like, _you know this is a bad idea and you’re letting it happen anyway, you naughty boy._ It’s not a bad idea, though, is the thing. It’s not an idea at all. This is just their whole thing, alright, this is the dance they do, the tightrope they walk. Just because Alex is being a little more forward than usual, doesn’t mean anyone is having ideas. An idea implies intention, and Jack’s got no intentions (he won’t do anything, he really won’t, he’s been so good for so long and he’s not going to break now), and if Alex has an agenda he’s too drunk to carry it out, so they’re fine. Nothing’s really different. And he’s not going to let his stupid reflection make him second-guess himself.

He grabs the painkillers and returns to Alex’s room. Alex’s eyes are closed despite the lights still glaring down from the ceiling. Once the water and drugs are safely set on the side table, Jack clicks the light off and, refusing to let his doubts get the better of him, resolutely clambers into Alex’s bed. Even with the two of them there should be more than enough room. They’re both skinny guys. And anyway, Alex is asleep, judging by the way he hasn’t reacted at all to Jack’s reappearance, and Jack doesn’t want to disturb him. Careful not to brush against Alex (but he’s _tempted_ he’s so tempted he wants to reach out he could call it an accident he could say Alex’s shirt was wrinkled he could come up with some excuse surely just for a moment), he tugs the covers up over his torso and tucks them under his chin.

Jack’s eyes are closed when he hears rustling, and Alex’s quiet voice. “Don’t you wanna cuddle?”

Jesus fucking Christ, this boy is going to be the death of Jack.

Saying _yes_ reveals a little too much and saying _no_ would be a flat-out lie that would hurt Alex’s feelings. Though at this point there’s no sense arguing. Alex has coerced Jack into staying and sleeping here, so to deny him this of all things would be futile. If it _is_ one bad idea after another, what’s one more?

“Don’t you wanna not be a clingy cuddle whore?” Jack mumbles. Alex gives a nighttime laugh, a daylight sigh. “Fine, Jesus.”

“Just Alex,” Alex says, like Jack knew he would. “Come closer. I can’t reach you.”

Jack shuffles nearer to the middle of the bed, eyes fluttering open to see Alex’s arms outstretched, fingertips bumping against Jack’s shoulder as Jack moves. “Are we all good here?” he asks wryly, shifting around until he’s on his other side because he knows Alex will complain anyway unless he does. 

“Mmhm.” Alex is almost asleep as he wraps his right arm around Jack’s middle, fingers curling naturally against Jack’s stomach. He’s so fucking warm, and Jack wishes it didn’t make sense to move _closer,_ but he has to — because he can’t keep his distance if they’re cuddling, and Alex won’t fall asleep until he’s perfectly content with the way they’re arranged. Alex is a whiny little bitch like that.

Jack doesn’t have to move because Alex takes the initiative, shifting closer with a small huff, like, _fine, I’ll do it myself,_ until he’s pressed flush against Jack, his breathing warm against the back of Jack’s neck. Jack’s initial instinct had been wrong; he’s not going to fall asleep easily tonight. He might not fall asleep at all, not with Alex this close, heating Jack’s skin like the furnace he is.

But it’s fine. It’s not like they’ve never fallen asleep together, and not even like this is the first time they’ll have cuddled. They’ve been best friends almost a decade. They’ve definitely found themselves in more compromising positions over the years, and Jack has always survived those.

This is fine, is the point. _This is fine,_ Jack reminds himself. _It’s fine,_ he thinks pointedly at his heartbeat, but his heartbeat doesn’t really care what Jack thinks. It won’t slow the fuck down. _Alex can probably hear you_ , he thinks irritably at it, then realizes how insane it is to be trying to communicate telepathically with one of his internal organs. Or muscles. Is the heart an organ or a muscle? Are organs muscles? _Not the point_ , Jack thinks, and by the time he’s reached that thought his heart has almost slowed to an acceptable pace.

“‘Night, Jacky,” Alex murmurs, and holy shit, his lips graze Jack’s skin when he speaks. “Thanks for takin’ care of me.”

There’s no hope for Jack’s heart rate. “‘Night, Alex.” Jack takes a deep, deep breath, slowly exhales, and closes his eyes even though he knows he’s not going to fall asleep for a long time.

Alex whispers, “Love you.”

And Jack doesn’t know what to say other than, “Love you too.” He’s sure he’ll dream of Alex, and in his dream he’ll say something really clever and eloquent, but right now, this close, he can’t think of anything good enough. He’s far too inarticulate to be in love with someone as worthy of words as Alex.

But it doesn’t end up mattering, because Alex falls asleep quickly. After a few minutes with his eyes closed, Jack feels Alex’s breathing even out, his grip slacken. This is the safest way that Jack can have Alex; close yet far away, almost his but very much not. Jack doesn’t actually deserve to have Alex, to _be_ Alex’s, but sometimes he’s able to kid himself that what they are right now is good enough for him. Can’t lose what you don’t have, right?

He falls asleep, and sure enough Alex is in his dream, smiling big and bright and totally sober, pulling Jack close, Jack kissing the _love you_ off Alex’s lips. In his dream, Alex gets it without Jack having to say it, but in his dream Jack says it anyway, because in his dream Jack is totally confident and not scared and knows for certain that when he says _I love you_ Alex is going to say it back.

At least one version of Jack knows what to say.

**TUESDAY**

It’s Tuesday again, and Jack is at Alex’s door with a bottle of wine.

“Hi,” Alex says, smiling as he opens the door. Jack always lets Alex open the door, out of courtesy and also lingering trauma from the one time Jack walked in while Alex was naked. It’s nice, though. He never usually gets to see the way Alex’s face lights up when he sees Jack. 

“Hi,” Jack says back. Alex doesn’t move out of the way, so Jack adds, “Are you gonna let me in?”

“Oh,” Alex says, and stays exactly where he is. Now Jack notices there’s something off about him, something… _nervous_. His fingers are curled around the ends of his sleeves, and he keeps biting his lip only to drag it between his teeth. “Not yet, actually. There’s…there was something I wanted to ask you first.”

“You can’t ask me inside?” Jack asks, raising his eyebrows. “Is everything okay?”

“Yes,” Alex says, which Jack doesn’t believe. “Okay, I guess it’s not really a question, now that I’m thinking about it. It might have a question at the end. I think I just need to say some things. Which may conclude with a question. I haven’t written it down or anything.”

“Jesus, Alex,” Jack says. “You’re stressing me out here. Just say whatever it is you have to say.”

Alex winces. “Okay. Fine.” He bites his lip again instead of speaking, and Jack starts to get nervous himself. Alex is sometimes an overdramatic piece of shit, though, so for all Jack knows he’s about to say _I think we should get takeout tonight instead of cooking_. Alex takes a very deep breath that pushes his shoulders back a bit, and says, “What would you say if I said I wanted this to be a real date night?”

Jack’s whole life flashes before his eyes.

(Not really. All he sees is Alex, but for Jack it’s the same thing.)

“I would ask you to explain,” he says hoarsely. Clearing his throat, he adds, “Please.”

“There’s not a lot to explain,” Alex says, and again digs his teeth into his lower lip. If he keeps it up he’s going to draw blood. “I want this to be a date. I want to go on dates with you. Because I like you. And…I don’t know. You’re my best friend, and I felt bad not telling you.” He sighs. “Plus I thought…there was a chance you would feel the same. Which obviously you don’t.”

“No, that’s not — that’s — don’t put words in my mouth!” Jack says indignantly over the rising panic in his chest and throat. “I — it’s not that I don’t — fuck.” 

“What?” Alex says tentatively. “You _do_ feel the same?”

Jack should lie, but he doesn’t know how. He should say _no_ , but with Alex he never learned to. A more selfless person, a better man, would shut this down before it can dig its heels in, but Jack is selfish and in love and he’s wanted Alex so bad for so long, and if there’s even the slightest chance that this is real life and not another one of Jack’s fantastical dreams, Jack is going to take it.

“Yeah,” he says with difficulty. One word shouldn’t be so hard to say, but it is; it unearths itself from under layers of denial, freed after years of being bound and gagged in the back of his mind, exhumes itself from where Jack had essentially buried it, this one word to change everything.

“Oh,” Alex says. Abruptly, he laughs, pulling a hand through his hair. Another nervous habit. “Fuck, seriously?”

“What kind of dick would I be if I was joking?” Jack says, scowling. “Yes, seriously.” He hesitates, a hundred fears precariously balanced on the tip of his tongue, every single way Jack expects for them to splinter into a million pieces. 

“You’re thinking something,” Alex says. As usual, he’s annoyingly perceptive. “What?”

“Take your fucking pick, man,” Jack says, mildly hysterical. He swallows. “What made you say something now?”

“A lot of small things,” Alex says. “Partly that the longer I went without telling you, the weirder I felt. Some things you said. Some things _I_ said.” He twirls and tugs the ends of his hair around his finger, and Jack resists the urge to swat his hand down and say _stop it, oh my God, you’re going to be bald before you’re fifty at this rate_ like he usually would. With a small, nervous laugh, Alex continues, “And when I woke up next to you on Sunday it just…it just felt right. Which, one, was weird, because I don’t usually like sharing a bed.” His gaze meets Jack’s, and even though Alex is the one talking, Jack feels stripped down to his core and put on display. “And two, made me realize I want to — I want that again. To wake up with you.”

Jack’s breath catches. _It’s a bad idea,_ he wants to say, _it’s such a bad idea, we don’t work, I’ve tried it in my head a thousand times and we never work, this is a mistake and you should take it back now before I believe you, while you can still convince me that this is a cruel joke you took too far._

Alex dares to look hopeful, and Jack can’t say it. “I want that too,” he says. 

Alex tilts his head a bit. “But?”

But.

“But don’t you think there’s no way this will work out?” Jack blurts out, closing his eyes for a second so he doesn’t have to see Alex flinch at the words. When he opens them, Alex looks confused.

“Uh…no?”

Jack frowns. “You think me and you together is a good idea?”

“Yeah, I do,” Alex says, a challenge in his tone. “A really fuckin’ great one. I don’t know anyone better than you, Jack, and you don’t know anyone better than me either, _yes_ including Zack before you say him,” (Jack closes his mouth), “and we’ve basically lived in each other’s pockets for almost ten years. If anything was going to go wrong, I think it would have already.”

“A relationship is completely different from friendship,” Jack argues.

“Yeah? How?”

“It’s just different.”

“We literally do date night every week.”

“That’s just an excuse to hang out.”

“Yeah, because we like spending time together! Like people in a relationship do!”

“You know me, Alex,” Jack says, the panic finally overflowing and spilling out in words. “You know how I am. No matter how much you say it doesn’t matter, eventually I’m not gonna be enough.”

There’s something in Alex’s face then, some incongruous mixture of defiance, surprise, and gentleness, the latter of which appears the moment Jack is finished speaking and instantly overtakes his features until it’s all that remains. “You think just because you don’t want sex that you won’t be enough for me?”

Of course Jack thinks that. Even with Alex looking the way he looks right now, as if that’s utterly preposterous, Jack’s not a fucking idiot. Alex likes sex, and Jack doesn’t. If that doesn’t make them a ticking time-bomb, Jack doesn’t know what would. And Alex can say all he wants that it doesn’t matter to him, and Jack’s sure he’s about to, but eventually it will.

They could never last forever. And Jack would rather never have Alex than lose him like that.

“Don’t say that like it doesn’t make sense,” Jack says defensively. “It’s a normal thing to think. That’d be like if you were poor and you dated another poor person. Yeah, maybe you like each other, but eventually you have to admit they can’t give you what you need.”

“Totally different,” Alex says. “And don’t talk about this like it’s just some random person I met at a bar and decided to go out with. We’re talking about you and me. Specifically you and me. Maybe if it was some stranger I wouldn’t bother, but for you, Jack?”

“Don’t — it can’t be different because it’s me,” Jack protests half-heartedly, wondering if it possibly could be different, trying to figure out how that would even make sense. 

“It is,” Alex says firmly, unyielding. Jack drops his gaze to his feet. The wine is growing heavy in his grip and he really wants to put it down. Or drink it. When Alex speaks again, it’s softer. “Jack, please. Don’t say we can’t just because you think it won’t last. That’s not fair. To either of us.”

Now it’s Jack’s turn to bite his lip. He never used to do that before knowing Alex, and now he finds himself annoyingly in the habit. “I don’t think it’s a good idea,” he mumbles. “One of us is going to end up miserable.”

“I don’t think so.” Jack can see Alex shifting on his feet and watches as he steps closer. He lifts his head and meets Alex’s eyes. “What if instead of thinking a billion steps ahead, we just start with step one?” Fingers encircling Jack’s wrist, Alex gently pries the bottle of wine from his grip and replaces it with his own hand in Jack’s. Jack doesn’t pull away. “I believe the traditional first step is a date.”

“You want to just…have date night? Like we always do?”

“Yeah,” Alex says. “But this time it will be an actual date. And if you’re lucky, I’ll kiss you at the end.”

That sounds too good to be true, but Jack can feel Alex’s hand so so warm in his own, and Alex’s body heat is never this high in Jack’s dreams. “Okay,” Jack says. Turning over Alex’s words in his head, he counters, “Not if I kiss you first.”

Alex hums, “What if we just,” with a final step that brings them close enough that their noses brush. Jack’s pulse skyrockets. He can feel it in his fingertips and hear it in his ears as if his entire body has been swallowed up by his heart; he’s all heartbeat, all his senses Alex — maybe that’s the same thing, maybe Alex _is_ his heartbeat, maybe all these years Alex has been the thing that keeps his blood racing through his veins, maybe his life force is inextricably tied with Alex’s presence in his life. Maybe Jack’s far too in love for his own good, for anyone’s.

Maybe, maybe, maybe, Jack thinks to himself, reaching up to brush Alex’s hair from his face and watching Alex’s eyes fall shut. There are too many fucking maybes in his head about a relationship that hasn’t even started. Jack would love to have some certainties. Even just one.

“Promise whatever happens, I won’t lose you?” he whispers, because if he’s going to believe anything Alex swears, this is it. He’s always thought of the two of them as Teflon, untouchable, but this could change things. This _will_ change things; it has to.

“You’ll never lose me,” Alex vows. His lips curve upward. “Come on, don’t be stupid. You should know that by now.”

A laugh forces its way between Jack’s teeth. Despite the thrill chasing its way down his spine, the fluttering of Alex’s heartbeat under Jack’s fingers where they’re cradling his jaw, the fact that unless Alex is a real piece of shit they’re going to kiss in seconds flat, after years and years of Jack waiting and wanting and convincing himself they would never, could never — Alex teases Jack, and Jack suddenly, inexplicably knows that they’re going to be alright.

If nothing else, he believes that he really never will lose Alex, and he wonders how he ever thought he could have.

Either Alex gets tired of waiting for an answer or he decides that he doesn’t need one, because he breathes a quiet laugh and bridges the space between them. Jack closes his eyes as their lips meet, and his mind momentarily short-circuits; when it comes back online it’s completely useless, just flashing _YOU’RE KISSING ALEX YOU’RE KISSING ALEX YOU’RE KISSING ALEX_ in neon letters.

It’s the closest Jack will ever get to discovering the answer to life, the universe, and everything. It seems impossible that he gets to know it before he’s even thirty, but there’s absolutely no doubt that the answer is Alex.

  
  


**FEBRUARY**

It’s when Jack is soaping up the plates from their Date Night Plus Two (featuring Zack and Rian, who’d insisted upon joining them to watch the first game of spring training) that Alex says, “Hey, would you ever want to maybe move in or something?”

Jack is still processing how the Orioles had been absolutely clobbered by the Jays tonight, and it takes him a minute. “Huh?”

“I mean, probably not here,” Alex continues. He approaches the sink and leans against the counter next to it, so that Jack can turn and see his face, drawn in thought. 

“Because it’s a studio,” Jack says reasonably.

Alex makes a face at him. “It’s a _nice_ studio.”

“A nice studio is still a studio.”

“Well I’m living on a musician’s salary here, babe.”

“I’m teasing.” Jack gestures with his sponge. “You were saying?”

“I was asking if you would want to move in somewhere else,” Alex says, “together.”

Logically, this question makes sense. It’s the natural order of things, that once you’ve been in a relationship for long enough, you want to move in with your partner. Jack and Alex have only been together a few months — although some (Zack, Rian, occasionally even Alex) would say longer, no matter how many times Jack exasperatedly repeats that _you can’t be in a relationship without knowing, it’s not just something that happens to you_ — but they’ve been learning each other’s habits and molding their lives around the other’s existence for ten years, so a few months is hardly anything. A forgivable question for Alex to ask.

Somehow, though, it catches Jack off-guard. “Really?”

“Uh…” Alex laughs. “Yes? Are you serious? Why do you always think I’m lying to you?” His smile is too wide to be serious. “You did this when I said I loved you, too.”

“You took me by surprise!” Jack protests, because that is _so_ not fair, they’d literally been in the middle of eating dinner when Alex had said it, mid-fucking-conversation about a new piece of music Alex had been working on, and Alex had totally done it just to catch Jack and now he won’t stop bringing it up, like the absolute shithead that he is. “I’m not moving in with you _now,_ you piece of shit.”

“No, I was teasing!” Alex makes an exaggerated grimace that looks a lot like that _yikes_ emoji he frequently uses. He scrambles towards Jack and wraps his arms around Jack’s stomach, tucking his chin over Jack’s shoulder.

“Stop making fun of me for five seconds and maybe I’ll reconsider.”

There’s a lull as Jack finishes soaping up one plate and picks up another, and then Alex’s voice in his ear: “Okay it’s been five seconds. Have you reconsidered?”

Jack rolls his eyes. He drags the sponge over the tattoo on Alex’s hand, getting soap all over his skin. Alex yanks his arms away. “Hey, what the fuck! You suck!”

“Fine,” Jack says. Now that the surprise has ebbed, what remains is an easiness that Jack keeps expecting to disappear. It comes from Alex, Jack knows it does — from being around Alex, with Alex, from loving and being loved by Alex. It’s always really been there, but now it doesn’t even come with an ache like it used to, before they were together. Now it’s just…easy. 

Jack had expected life to be smoke and mirrors deceiving him despite his best efforts, but he has to admit he pulled the wool over his own eyes with this one. Life had given him a neon arrow pointing directly towards Alex, and Jack had spent almost ten years pretending to be blind. Now that he’s finally followed the directions, he’s regularly amazed at how simple some things really are. Some things like Alex.

“You wanna move in together?” Jack says again. “Yeah, sure. I’m down. I should talk to Zack about it first, though. Find him a new roommate.”

Alex has resumed his role as Major Inconvenience by hugging Jack from behind, but with their cheeks pressed together Jack can feel Alex’s smile. “Fuck yeah,” he says. “You know, I bet Rian would move in with him.”

Jack inclines his head and sets the newly soaped-up plate on top of the other one. “That’s actually not a bad idea.”

“What do you mean, _actually?_ I’m full of good ideas. Don’t answer that, that was rhetorical,” Alex says quickly. Jack chuckles quietly and resumes his methodical dishwashing. “Fine. So you talk to Zack and I’ll talk to Rian.”

“Have you thought about this at all?” Jack wonders. “Or was it more of a spur-of-the-moment proposal?”

“Proposal?” Alex says, a little too slowly for Jack’s liking. “God damn, you hasty boy, I only just asked you to move in with me.”

“You know what I fucking meant, you asshole.”

“Of course it was spur-of-the-moment, you think I ever plan anything when it comes to you?” Alex asks, kissing Jack’s shoulder. “You just looked so damn domestic I had to ask.”

Which is code for _I’ve been working up the nerve for a little while now,_ but Jack decides not to call him on it. “Cute,” is what he says. “So when you _do_ propose, should I expect that to be out of nowhere, too?”

“What makes you think I’m gonna propose?”

Months ago, Jack would never have even mentioned it. The Jack from before had been holding his breath for the systems failure before they’d even lifted off, but not this Jack. 

It’s insane to know, but Jack knows.

“Well, if you don’t then I will,” he says smoothly.

Alex’s knee digs into the back of Jack’s thigh. “What, right now?”

“No, you moron. I’m just saying. Eventually.”

“This is crazy,” Alex says. “We can’t be talking about getting married. We haven’t even been together a year.”

“Actually, Zack says we’ve been together ten years, and he knows everything,” Jack points out. “And if you average it out it’s like…five or something, which is still way long enough to get married.”

“Jesus, dude,” Alex says. “Slow down. Between the math and the marriage talk, you’ve completely lost me.”

Jack laughs as he finishes soaping up the last plate and finally starts to rinse them. Hot water cascades over his hands, filling with bubbles as the soap clears away from the newly-clean plates. Washing dishes was once a chore, Jack is pretty sure, but now it feels more like a ritual, like another facet of date night. Make dinner, lose to whatever team they’re playing (and it’s only spring training, Jesus Christ, they’re going to get their asses handed to them on silver platters this season), wash the dishes, kiss goodnight. Somehow Jack is always responsible for washing the dishes, but it means he gets Alex clinging to him like a koala, so in Jack’s mind it’s a fair trade.

(He’s always so close now, always at hand, looking at Jack or touching Jack whenever he can help it and not even subtle about his efforts — it’s so much more than Jack ever dreamed of having, and every few days he has to pinch himself just to be absolutely sure this is real life. But it always is; this is just Jack’s life now, being the luckiest boy on the goddamn planet.)

“So —”

“To be clear, I’m not saying I _won’t_ marry you,” Alex interrupts. A smile steals over Jack’s face and then a laugh to go with it. “What?”

“I was about to ask if you were saying you won’t marry me,” Jack says quietly, giggling. “Man, Alex, we might already be married.”

“That would take all the fun out of planning a proposal, so no.” Alex kisses Jack’s cheek. “But _no_ , like I was saying, that wasn’t a rejection. More like a postponement.”

“Good,” Jack says. “Otherwise I’d have to return the ring in my pants drawer and that would be super annoying.”

A pause. “You’re fucking with me,” Alex says suspiciously.

Jack smiles. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

“There’s no way you have a ring.”

“Are you gonna check?” He won’t, Jack already knows. Alex would never spoil a surprise for himself like that.

After another pause: “... _No,_ because I don’t want to ruin the surprise if you do have one, but I don’t believe you.”

“I don’t care if you believe me,” Jack says airily. The last of the plates is finally clean; Jack leans it against the others in the drying rack and says, “Grab me the towel?”

When it’s in his hands he dries them off, and as he starts to turn, Alex moves away. His hands are on his hips and he’s eyeing Jack critically. “Here’s the deal,” he says. “ _You_ are not proposing to me. _I_ am going to propose to you.”

“Oh my God, Alex, relax,” Jack says, grinning. “You’re so crazy about everything. We haven’t even moved in and you’re already thinking about how to propose. Way to come on too strong.”

“Alright, you know what,” Alex threatens, snatching the dish towel out of Jack’s hands and hitting him with it. Jack ducks down, shrieking, and grabs at the air until the towel is in his grasp.

“Stop it! No violence! Make love not war! No hitting your boyfriend!”

Alex twists the towel around his wrist and pulls, and Jack stumbles forward with it until their hands meet in the middle. Delicately Alex frees the towel from both of their hands. He tosses it onto the counter and gives Jack a cheeky smile.

“Truce?” 

Jack leans in and quickly steals a kiss, soaking up Alex’s warmth wherever he can get it. He thinks about the small velvet box tucked away in the corner of his pants drawer, the one drawer Alex never opens because it’s the only clothes of Jack’s that he won’t fit into.

“Truce,” he agrees, and though he’s not sure what the truce is exactly, he knows he’ll be honoring it forever.

**Author's Note:**

> well that was fun !! what a journey we take together at four in the morning. or whenever you're reading this. i have to be honest, when i started writing it i did NOT expect it to be 11k, but here we are. i am really like my brother just doing things with predictable results and then being surprised when the results happen. 
> 
> anyway this is a bit of a tangent so let's refocus here!! you can track me down with VERY little effort on tumblr [@clumsyclifford](http://clumsyclifford.tumblr.com/) :) also! if you leave a comment i will be very excited and smile a lot, so if you're interested in......being responsible for that, then go ahead and. do it. alright i really have no idea what i'm saying here anymore so i'm gonna go LOVE YOU BYEEEE !!!!!!!


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